


The Walk

by heavenorspace, twobirdsonesong



Series: A Boy and His Wolf [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A Boy and His Wolf, Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Art, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Confessions, Conversations, Developing Relationship, Drabble, Gen, M/M, Time Skips, Walks In The Woods, Wolf Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:38:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1357783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenorspace/pseuds/heavenorspace, https://archiveofourown.org/users/twobirdsonesong/pseuds/twobirdsonesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles takes a little walk through the forest with his wolf and ends up confessing one, big important thing, just maybe not the right thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Walk

**Author's Note:**

> A Boy and His Wolf is a collaborative project between [heavenorspace](http://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenorspace/pseuds/heavenorspace) and myself.
> 
> It will be a series of vignettes, out of chronological order, set in a world where Derek, in the form of a wolf, first encountered Stiles when he was a toddler playing in the woods. Derek is under strict pack orders not to reveal himself as werewolf to the human boy and must only interact with him as a wolf. When Stiles is a child, their relationship is strictly platonic and protective in nature. As Stiles grows older that begins to change.
> 
> Each drabble will be accompanied by a piece of art drawn by heavenorspace.

(art by heavenorspace)

 

“Dad, I’m going for a walk, I’ll be back later!” Stiles calls into the dining room as he heads for the back door. His dad is sitting at the table, going over some case files and drinking his third cup of coffee in an hour. Stiles would tell him not to work so damn hard but it doesn’t do any good.

 

“Be back before it gets dark, okay?” The Sheriff looks up with a brow wrinkled in concern.

 

“I’ll be fine, dad, don’t worry.”  Stiles zips up his old red hoodie and grins fondly at his dad.

 

“My teenage son is going to a walk alone in the wilderness. Nothing at all to worry about there.”

 

“Glad we agree,” Stiles responds cheerfully, waving as he closes the door behind him.  “And I’m not going to be alone,” he adds softly.

 

The wolf is waiting for Stiles just beyond the edge of the tree line, sitting still as a sentinel and hidden from view should the Sheriff look out of the back door window as Stiles slips into the woods. The black of his fur and the lighter smudges of color are as familiar to Stiles as his own hair.  He gets up when Stiles approaches, long tail wagging in as much excitement as he ever shows.  The wolf is a lot of things, but overly enthused isn’t one of them.

 

“Hey buddy,” Stiles greets.  He drops his hand to the thick scruff at the wolf’s shoulders and gives him a good scratch.  The wolf bumps his big head into Stiles’ hip in return.

 

They walk along the familiar trails and Stiles chatters away about anything and everything.  He tells the wolf about his last history paper (totally aced it even though it’s 5 pages over the maximum) and how the math substitute the other day looked like a homeless Tom Hanks.  It’s nice to have someone to talk to who doesn’t care about the wild tangents his thoughts take.

 

The wolf trots along at his hip, sometimes breaking away to sniff curiously at a plant and or tree.  Stiles loves the way the wolf seems to have a pattern – there are certain trees and rocks that he marks every time they go out for a walk and Stiles wonders just who or what the wolf is warning off from his territory. Once that afternoon another jogger crosses their path.  Stiles nods hello, which really just means he jerks his head awkwardly while the man totally ignores him, but when Stiles looks down the wolf is gone. Stiles can’t imagine what someone would think if they saw some kid walking alone with a wild animal. The wolf returns to him when the jogger is long out of sight, sliding between two trees on silent paws, ears perked forward.

 

“Must suck to have to hide like that,” Stiles says to the wolf, when he takes his place back at Stiles’ side.  The wolf looks up with him with those too-intelligent golden eyes but says nothing, as always.  Stiles sighs.

 

It’s not often that he wishes the wolf were human. Their relationship is an almost completely one-sided conversation and has been for thirteen years. But that doesn’t mean they don’t talk.  Stiles counts the little ways the wolf responds to him as his own kind of communication – the throaty whuffs and the snorts and the way the wolf bumps his muzzle against Stiles to get his attention.  The deep look in his eyes is its own kind of conversation.  Stiles think he almost always knows what the wolf is thinking. He’s had enough practice figuring it out.

  
But sometimes Stiles wishes the wolf could really _talk_ to him, could answer his questions in human words with human meaning.  Because Stiles has a lot of questions.

 

“What do you do when you’re not with me?” Stiles asks aloud, casting his gaze towards the trees instead of down at his companion. There’s a gentle breeze that afternoon and it brings with it the dark scent of the forest, of rich loam and rough bark and dying leaves. “Do you have a family?  Parents.  Siblings.  Where you do live?  In the woods?”

 

It’s not the first time Stiles has wondered about these things.  He thinks about it all the time when falls asleep pillowed against the wolf only to wake up with him long gone.  Or when the wolf appears beneath his window just when Stiles is having a bad day and needs his best friend.  And it’s the not the first time he’s asked, though he never gets an answer.

 

“Why did you help me when I was kid? Why do you keep coming back?” And that’s maybe the biggest question of them all.

 

But the wolf keeps walking and says nothing.

 

“I wish you had a name.”  The wolf looks up at that. “I want to call you something other than ‘buddy.’”

 

The wolf’s eyebrows twitch and Stiles can’t help but think of Derek Hale, the boy he quite literally ran into a couple of weeks ago. He thinks about the way the older boy’s face moves when he talks, all eyebrows and silent expression. Not that he stares at Derek’s face when they pass in the hallway at school or across the cafeteria during lunch. He totally doesn’t.

 

“What if I call you White Fang?” The wolf shakes his big head and snorts.  “No? How about Buck? Maugrim?  What about Big Bad?”

  
The wolf lets out a playful little bark and grabs the hem of Stiles’ hoodie between his long, sharp teeth, tugging just a bit.

 

“All right, all right!” Stiles laughs, pushing at the wolf’s muzzle.  “Don’t tear it, it’s my favorite.”

 

The wolf rolls his eyes as he loosens his truly gentle hold on the fabric, as though to express how dumb he thinks Stiles is that he would ever harm anything about him, including his clothes.  Stiles trusts no one as much as he trusts the wolf, except his dad.

 

Stiles spies a big, broken off stick next to the trail – it’s really more of a branch – and he snatches it up without even thinking about it.  He starts to toss it up into the air, giving his hands something to do as they continue their walk.  Suddenly Stiles catches the wolf’s sharp eyes tracking the branch, watching with barely restrained interest.

 

“Oh, dude.  I’m sorry.  Did you wanna play or something?” Stiles look down at the branch in his hands. “We never really play fetch do we?”

 

In all the years the wolf has come around, Stiles can’t think of a time they’ve played together like he’s played with other dogs in the neighborhood. Not with a tennis ball or a stick or a Frisbee. When he was younger the wolf would chase him around the woods, helping him burn off excess energy. But usually they just go for walks and talk.  Well, Stiles talks. The wolf listens. Stiles thinks it’s probably because there’s something about the wolf that says fetch is beneath him, that it’s for dogs and he is most certainly _not a dog_.  And sometimes the wolf sneaks into the house and up into Stiles bedroom and sleeps on his bed while he finishes his homework and maybe that’s really kind of weird and strange and probably dangerous but Stiles doesn’t care. The wolf is his friend.

 

But now the wolf’s eyes track the movement of the stick and his shoulders start to sink down like he’s getting reading to pounce. His pupils are so huge they almost swallow up the amber.

 

Stiles draws his arm back and throws the stick as hard and as far as he can.  He jumps back in surprise when the wolf launches himself in chase, moving faster than Stiles can track.  He’s got the stick clamped between his jaws almost before Stiles can draw a breath. The wolf turns, head high and holding the stick proudly, before his demeanor changes as soon as he spots Stiles. He drops the stick to the ground and hangs his head like he’s embarrassed.

 

Stiles holds his hand out. “Dude, come on. It’s ok to like to play fetch. I know you’re some big bad wolf and all, but everyone likes to have fun.  Seriously, let’s play.”

 

The wolf stares at him with those peculiar eyes of his for a long moment – almost daring him to judge him for this – and Stiles swears if the wolf had bushier eyebrows they’d be having their own separate conversation.  He seems to make some sort of decision because he dips his head, snatches the branch up, and brings it back to Stiles.

 

Stiles grabs the other end of the stick, intending to take the branch to throw it again, but it won’t budge.  The wolf’s jaws are locked down tight.

 

“Oh that’s not fair!” Stiles tugs on the end and the wolf tugs back, pulling Stiles a step forward.  “Dude there’s no way I’m going to win this!”  The wolf takes a step backwards, then another, pulling Stiles along with him.

 

“You asshole!” Stiles laughs, shaking the branch as hard as he can, but the wolf holds on.  The wolf has never looked this mischievous and Stiles loves it. “You’re a goddamn wolf and I’m a scrawny kid there’s no way I’m going to win this.”  The wolf’s eyes flash – almost glowing golden – and Stiles nearly lets go of the stick.

 

“I can’t throw it if you don’t let go.” The wolf’s eyes narrow in challenge, but he opens his jaw.  Stiles rears back and throws the branch again, this time deeper into the woods instead of down the trail, but the wolf just leaps after it and brings it back to him in an instant.

 

Stiles keeps walking down the path, throwing the stick every which way and not even feigning surprise that the wolf retrieves it from wherever it lands.  Sometimes he even snatches it out of midair, long body far too graceful as he leaps up high and fast.  It takes a while, and Stiles’ shoulder grows tired, but eventually the wolf begins to pant a little – pink tongue lolling – not that it slows him down.

 

“You know,” Stiles muses.  The sky above the treetops is just beginning to shade into the first edges of impinging dusk.  “I’ve seen your eyes.  When you think I’m not looking.  They change colors.”

  
The wolf stops in his tracks and looks up at Stiles, head tilted just so. Stiles can almost hear the wolf trying to deny it.

 

“If you don’t wanna tell me your secrets that’s fine. We all have secrets,” Stiles rakes his hand through his hair.  The moment turns on him faster than he’d meant for it to.  “Not you and me, I mean.  You know everything about me.  No secrets here.  Absolutely none.”

  
The wolf makes a soft, almost human sound of disbelief and Stiles sighs. Sometimes the wolf is way too fucking perceptive.

 

“Yeah, ok fine.  How can you even tell?  God, it’s like one stupid tiny insignificant secret.” Stiles stops walking, his shoulders slumping.  There’s a large rock just off the path and he clambers up onto it, getting as comfortable as he can. The wolf brings him the branch, nudging at his knee with the end until Stiles takes it and throws it down the path.  The wolf fetches it and brings it back.  He touches his nose to Stiles’ thigh.

 

“It’s just – there’s a kid at school. This guy.  And he keeps, he keeps looking at me.  You know, _looking_.”

 

The wolf makes a sound that Stiles rarely hears from him – he growls.  A low rumbling warning from deep in his chest that Stiles swears he can feel along his skin. Stiles throws the branch even harder and the wolf dutifully returns it to him.

 

“And I don’t know what it means.  I mean, I know what it _means_. But like.  I don’t know what to do about it.”  The branch soars through the air again.

 

“His name is Ethan.  We have gym together.  And I’ve seen him, you know.  Looking.  In the showers.  And it’s not like I’m not looking too.  I am. It’s not like he’s being weird about it. I just.  I guess I didn’t know that other people knew, you know? About me.  That I’m…like I am.”  Stiles takes a deep breath and scratches his fingers through his hair before rubbing his hands across his face.  He doesn’t have anyone to hide from out here; it’s just him and his wolf.

 

The wolf abandons the branch and rests his big head on Stiles’ knee.  Stiles automatically drops his hand to the wolf’s head, burying his fingers in the thick fur, grasping for purchase.

 

He hates this.  He hates that he still can’t say it out loud.  That the cut of Ethan’s abs does the same thing to him as the curl of Lydia’s hair or the scent of her perfume.  That the heavy muscles in Danny’s thighs are as appealing and incredible to him as the freckles on the bridge of the nose of the girl in 4th period.  That the way he sometimes catches Derek staring at him, with his pale eyes and stupidly adorable bunny teeth makes his heart pound more than the bare body of the girls writhing on his laptop screen late at night.

 

But it’s there.  It’s always been there.  He’s sure his dad knows, even if the Sheriff hasn’t said anything yet.  And Ethan surely knows, somehow.

 

And now the wolf knows.  Stiles tightens his grip on the wolf’s fur, anchoring himself.

 

“And I just.  I don’t know.  I don’t really know anything else about him.  But I guess.  Yeah. I guess I’m interested? I mean, it’s like anyone _else_ notices me.”

 

Stiles shrugs and the wolf growls again, soft and low.

 

“What?” Stiles looks down at the wolf, who is gazing up at him with serious, concerned eyes.  “Dude, don’t worry.”  Stiles slides off the rock and crouches down next to the wolf, taking the wolf’s big head in both hands and ruffling his fur.  “You know you’re always gonna be my number one guy.”

 

The wolf abruptly pushes in and licks at his cheek. Just the once. Soft and fast and tentative. Somehow his breath smells faintly of mint, like old toothpaste.  Stiles laughs and shakes the wolf’s head.

 

“You too, dude.”

 

Stiles pushes himself to his feet and takes a deep breath, draw in the damp, fresh hair and exhaling out all the weirdness that’s taking root in his belly, all the confusion and uncertainty.  When he looks up, the sky has grown even darker and soon the first stars will wink into view.  He sighs.  It’s time to go. He’s not afraid of the woods, never has been, and especially now that he’s got his wolf at his side. But his dad still worries.

 

“Come on, let’s get me home before my dad sends a search party.”

 

The wolf rises and knocks his head into Stiles’ hip. Stiles watches as the wolf snatches up the almost forgotten branch in his jaws.

 

“Taking it with you?” Stiles asks, grinning. “Little souvenir?” The wolf just rolls his eyes and starts walking back towards the Stilinski house. Stiles shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and follows him.


End file.
